I Dream of Going to Vegas

I missed going to the Fastener Show in Las Vegas this year.  Being currently unemployed, the requisite connections necessary to justify, and fund, a presence at the show just weren't there.  It's like not going to the prom, for lack of limo money ... and a date.  With nothing else to do, I worked on my new blog and, after my last blog entry, decided to take a nap.  In the course of that rest period, an especially vivid dream burst through my brain and I'd like to share the experience here, with my friends.

It started with me packing a bag, preparing for a trip (the longing for Vegas materializes immediately).  The bag, one that I usually employ for weekend trips and not business travel, filled up quickly and allowed the dream to progress smoothly into the trip to the airport.  Accompanying me were my girlfriend Christine and my brother Frank.  Frank sported an uncustomary load of facial hair, not quite to the degree of the Uni-Bomber, but jarring, nevertheless.

We took the rail to the airport.  Another unusual aspect, since it was unlike any train to any New York metropolitan airport in existence.  We rode a basic NYC Transit El car and, when we arrived at our destination, had to negotiate a long flight of stairs from the station to ground level.  Heading downward, I glanced at signage and heard announcements from the loudspeaker intimating a message about "The New MTA - Where Courtesy Comes First."  Only in a dream, right?

Approaching the bottom step, I noticed an Asian woman in a light blue uniform standing beside an empty wheelchair, looking past us up the staircase.  I turned to look and saw a large African-American man in full MTA dress blues carrying a small woman in his arms down the stairs.  He deposited his cargo, a dark-haired young thing, into the wheelchair and started back up, but the Asian woman called after him.

"Hey, where you going?"

He turned to her and she motioned to another set of stairs, six feet away, rising up towards the airport terminal.  Apparently, there are no escalators in my dreams.  Or pedestrian bridges.  The MTA man shrugged his shoulders, resulting in a frustrated response from the Asian woman, who gestured frantically toward the passenger in the wheelchair.

"Colonoscopy!  Colonoscopy!"

The MTA man shrugged again and continued back up the stairs, displaying the notion that courtesy, like so many other things, has its own boundaries.  The Asian woman pushed the wheelchair to the base of the adjoining staircase and ordered the young woman off.

"You go now.  Up you go."

The small woman removed herself from the chair and slowly climbed the stairs, with the three of us beginning immediately to her rear and easily overtaking her.  As I passed, I looked over and it seemed as if she had aged dramatically during her short trip.  Damn those colonoscopies.  I hope they find a cure.

We arrived at the security area, which consisted of a long table and more of those uniformed Asian women, each of them opening luggage and questioning the contents.

"What this?  What this?"

Apparently, there are no X-ray machines in my dreams.  I placed my bag onto the table, standing in line behind my brother and Christine, and noticed that the bag in my possession was not the one I had so carefully packed.  Instead of a gym bag, I stared at a briefcase.  Something inside told me that it was full of dirty underwear.  I leaned over to Christine and told her of my problem.

"I'm going to have to buy clothes when we get there."

"Why?"

"I brought the wrong bag."

"Unbelievable."

While I awaited my turn, Frank prepared for checkout further ahead, assisted by a big redneck in a bright red vest.  The man spoke in a booming voice and kept referring to my bearded brother as Rabbi.  Frank wore a floppy cane hat and casual clothing, so the reference seemed a little incongruous.  On the other hand, I myself sometimes have trouble distinguishing between Jews and Italians, but that's only with women.

I felt the briefcase pulling away from me and turned to see one of the Asian women starting to open it.  Before I could say anything, she began her inspection.  Sure enough, she found it brimming with knots of dirty laundry and looked up at me in shock.

"You retarded?  You pack like you retarded."

I nodded back at her because that seemed to me to be a reasonable excuse for the error.  She shook her head, closing the lid and latches, and handed it back.  She then grabbed the next bag in line as I moved away, reverting to previous form.

"What this?"

Next, it was on to the redneck, who handed me a slip of paper with printing on it, probably in reference to my trip.  He then gave me a pencil and ordered me to sign my name.  Apparently, there is no ink in my dreams.  I returned the signed form to him and he swapped it with a plastic rectangle, another similar form glued to its front.

"Sign this, too."

"Where?"

He pointed to a bare section of red plastic above the form.  I signed the plastic in pencil and then woke up.  I never made it to Vegas, not even in my dream.  For those who like to analyze these things, have at it.  Maybe you can decipher the message my brain is sending.  For me, it boils down to this:  Apparently, there is no justice in my dreams.